The Detective And The Actor
by Ink Spotz
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is bored out of his mind since John is out of town and there are no cases to solve. Benedict Cumberbatch is tired, just wanting to have the chance to slow down his hectic work schedule. What happens when these two men meet face to face? Will they both be able to solve the problem they are faced with?


Chapter 1

Sherlock was bored. Again. He was bored of his life, which had ceased to yield any cases as of late. John happened to be out of town with his wife, and newborn child, and therefore, left Sherlock alone in his boredom to wile away the hours doing whatever he could manage to find. He wasn't allowed in to St. Bart's for the next week since his latest experiment left the lab there in a total wreck. Every last beaker in the lab had been shattered, and even with Sherlock's lengthy and detailed explanation, he was pushed out.

Mrs. Hudson also, was proving to not be any source of amusement either. She had become stricter on her whole, "I'm not your housekeeper", rule which left Sherlock brewing his own tea and finding his own food to eat. His diet for the last week had consisted of sandwiches and over watery tea. The experiments still littered the kitchen, and were cluttering it currently at such an alarming rate, that it was hard for Sherlock to figure out where each experiment started and ended.

Sherlock sighed deeply, throwing himself into his arm chair. The gun that lay on the small table beside the arm chair was depleted of bullets. Mrs. Hudson had emptied the gun when she had been in his flat the one time he went grocery shopping, saying that the neighbors had complained about a noise disturbance at two in the morning. He took a deep breath and let it out through his noise as he closed his eyes. Neighbors were such a bother sometimes.

"Sherlock! Get up! Stop your moping!"

Sherlock recognized the voice that was currently chided him for his current state. He emitted a small groan, keeping his eyelids shut, unwilling to move from the comfort of his chair.

He soon felt something smack him square in the face, and he jerked upward slightly as a reaction. His eyelids shot open and he noticed that his face currently had a newspaper on it. He reached up a hand to yank the newspaper away from his line of vision.

"You're one to talk. You're the one who has insisted that I take care of myself, and has thus left me to my own devices when it comes to my eating habits."

He heard humming come from the kitchen, immediately followed by the clanking of various pots and pans in the kitchen as it was being cleaned.

"Did you not just hear me?" asked Sherlock as he quickly rose from his chair, newly acquired newspaper tucked firmly underneath his arm. "You have insisted for the last week that you are not my housekeeper, and have-"

"Oh, Sherlock. Do quit your whining. You know what I meant by that statement. You know I don't mean that I want you to come to any sort of ruin, which is apparently where you're currently heading."

Sherlock leaned in the doorway of the kitchen as he watched Mrs. Hudson move gracefully about(or as gracefully as she could in a messy kitchen). He let out a sigh, which immediately rustled his unruly raven curls.

"Oh dear. What is _this?"_ asked Mrs. Hudson, wrinkling her nose in disgust as she picked up a pot containing contents that resembled acid, odd wires sticking up out of it like wild hair. "Are you trying to create some kind of atomic bomb up here?"

Sherlock chuckled before making his way over to Mrs. Hudson, taking the pot from her hands.

"It's an experiment, Mrs. Hudson," replied Sherlock simply as he placed it safely aside, away from her touch.

"This whole kitchen looks like an experiment, Sherlock," said Mrs. Hudson, gesturing her hands around the messed up kitchen. "This is not healthy for you Sherlock."

"Nonsense. Just because it may not be considered 'healthy' for you, doesn't mean it's not for me," stated Sherlock watching Mrs. Hudson as she walked over to the sink.

"Is that an _eyeball, _Sherlock Holmes?!"

Sherlock chuckled slightly as he moved to the sink and looked down into it to see the eyeball that rested there.

"Yes, it is, Mrs. Hudson. I had to let it sit for twenty-four hours before I could-"

Mrs. Hudson held up a finger to indicate to Sherlock that he needed to be quiet. Normally an action like that didn't cause his voice to die out, but it did this time. He shrugged his shoulders, and turned to the counter. He moved some of his experiments aside before hopping up on it to sit on it. He crossed his legs and began to engross himself in whatever petty nonsense the world found important.

"You need to get out. Meet new people, make some new friends-"

"Brilliant," muttered Sherlock from behind the newspaper, his eyes scanning the headlines for anything that sounded halfway interesting to read. "Just brilliant. I feel as if I'm being coached before my first day of school again."

Mrs. Hudson let out a huff at Sherlock's statement. Sherlock ignored it, finally finding an article that might be halfway interesting. He immediately started to read it.

"Sherlock, I'm serious," said Mrs. Hudson. "Can you at least try for me?"

Sherlock brought the newspaper down from his face slightly so that his blue eyes could peek over the top of it to stare at her.

"Try indicates that nothing might come of the exercise, which therefore implies to me that it is a complete waste of my time and energy."

"And _this _isn't?" asked Mrs. Hudson, picking up a jar of some sort of red substance, shaking it in her hands.

"Do be careful with my blood samples, Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock as he brought the newspaper up to cover his face again. "Wouldn't want to alter the results."

"Oh, Sherlock," sighed Mrs. Hudson. "Please. Just try. For one day."

"One day consists of twenty-four hours, Mrs. Hudson. You're asking me to possibly waste twenty-four hours of my life; twenty-four hours that I'll never be able to get back if this proves a miserable waste of time," commented Sherlock, quickly flipping to a new page in the newspaper.

"You know you owe me, Sherlock, for all the times that I have made you sandwiches, and dusted your flat, and made you tea..."

Sherlock looked up from the newspaper again momentarily, his looks completely passive to hide any emotions that he possibly could be feeling.

"You have to play that card, must you? You're that desperate to rid of me?"

"Sherlock, I just want to see you excited about something again; happy about something again," said Mrs. Hudson. "Please. One day."

Sherlock let out a thoughtful hum as he looked down at the newspaper again; his eyes currently scanning a list of events that was going on in London today.

"Very well. I shall attend this film festival that is going on, but then I'm coming home straight after."

A small smile spread across Mrs. Hudson's face as she simply nodded.

"Enjoy yourself, Sherlock. Have some fun."

He smirked slightly at her wording as he folded the newspaper back up and set it beside him.

"Fun is a word that I rarely use anymore, Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock, hopping down off the counter.

He wandered back into the living room to grab his coat, which was currently draped over his chair. He shrugged into it, tying his scarf around his neck before making his way towards the door.

"I shall be back in a couple hours, and would greatly appreciate a sandwich with a cup of tea..."

"I'm not your housekeeper!" came Mrs. Hudson's voice from his kitchen.

Sherlock smiled slightly as he descended the stairs, making his way toward the film festival.

* * *

Benedict Cumberbatch was in London today to attend a film festival to promote the new movie, "The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug", that he was working on with Martin Freeman. This latest project required a lot of traveling. He had just gotten back from the studios the other day, and he could still feel the small puckers on his skin from where the wires had been attached to him. He laid on the sofa in his trailer, completely spent and craving just a few blissful hours of sleep. He rolled over, sleep tugging at his body.

"Just a few minutes..." he whispered out loud to himself, curling up onto his side, his eyelids slowly closing. "You'll just sleep for a few minutes..."

A knock soon came at his door.

"Is anybody awake in there? Yoohoo!"

The pounding on the door increased in intensity, and Benedict moaned as he rose to his feet, making his way toward the door. He passed one of the mirrors on the way by and noticed what lying down had done to his appearance. He didn't care. People would still recognize him and love him just the same even if his shirt was wrinkled and his hair was sticking up at different angles on his head.

The pounding grew even louder.

"I'm coming! I'm coming!" shouted Benedict as he lumbered toward the door, yanking it open.

Standing on the steps of his trailer was one of the managers of the film festival. She had red hair that framed either side of her face, coming to rest near her chin. Her green eyes stared back at Benedict as wide as marbles. She was star struck in his presence.

He tried to afford her an apologetic smile, knowing that he had been rather grumpy when he had yelled.

"You're needed. Fans have started to line up for you."

Benedict allowed his eyes to lift up and look at the building in the distance, noticing the sea of cars that were crowding the parking lot. He could see from his position on the steps of his trailer that people were still lined up outside, waiting for a chance for their tickets to be verified and to be admitted in.

"Yes, I suppose it is. I'm dreadfully sorry for my somewhat abrasive manner toward you," said Benedict as he descend the small set of steps, and shut his trailer door.

"Oh, Mr. Cumberbatch, sir...your hair," said the manager, now going timid.

He chuckled, reaching up a hand to attempt to pat down his hair so he would be somewhat presentable.

"There. At least that should look a tad better than it did before," he said, giving her a smile.

She blushed then, chuckling slightly at the sight of his hair, which was still sticking up in a few places.

"Are you ready to go to your booth, Mr. Cumberbatch, sir?"

"Yes," he said, the smile still on his face, "And please, call me Benedict."

She smiled, holding out her hand to him.

"And you can call me Lila."

Benedict took her hand and shook it.

"Nice to meet you, Lila. I shall follow your lead."

With that, Lila turned and started to lead Benedict toward the venue where all his fans awaited him.

As soon as they entered the building and proceeded to walk down the hall, Benedict paused slightly. He just needed a few more minutes of peace. Just a few more minutes to clear his head before his fans mobbed him.

"Excuse me, Lila, but I just have to use the loo for a moment. I promise I'll make it quick."

Lila paused in her steps, and simply nodding her head.

"Alright then. I'll meet you at your booth once you're finished."

Benedict simply nodded before pushing into the men's room, and entering a stall. He just wanted a couple more minutes before it all began.

* * *

This was madness.

What had he been thinking?

"Choose to go to a film festival..." muttered Sherlock out loud to himself as he wove his way through the crush of people, trying to find something to look at that would amuse him for a bit. "What were you thinking? A library would have sufficed Mrs. Hudson's request much nicer..."

Sherlock stumbled forward as some people jostled up alongside him. He managed to stay on his feet, steadying his balance out as he grabbed a hold of one of the tables nearby.

"Maybe I could just hide in the bathroom, and just tell Mrs. Hudson that I enjoyed myself..." suggested Sherlock as a pamphlet was shoved into his face.

"Don't miss all the action of the-"

Sherlock, who was by this point irritated, ripped the pamphlet out of the man's hands shaking it in front of his face.

"Don't miss the action, you say? I can almost guarantee you that I've seen more action in the last year of my life that you will ever see in your entire lifetime! Have you stopped terrorist threats, apprehended thieves, and stopped cold blooded murderers right in their very tracks as they hold a knife to your throat?"

The man looked at Sherlock with wide eyes, his mouth moving in an attempt to speak, but no words being able to come out of it.

"I thought as much." Sherlock took the pamphlet and thrusted it back into the man's hands. "Don't tell me to not miss the action because I see it every day of my life."

With that, Sherlock turned on his heel and went to go find the bathrooms. He would just hide in the loo until this madness was over with. Or maybe even he could find someone carrying cigarettes and be allowed the luxury of taking a smoke.

The crowd thinned out as he finally found the hallway where the bathrooms were located. He sighed with relief, not realizing that everything had felt so claustrophobic until now. He saw the Men's room off to his right, and shouldered his way into the bathroom. Now he felt better. He stood in front of one of the mirrors above the sink, studying his reflection for a moment before looking down into the sink, debating his next plan of action. How would he entertain himself now?

He heard the sound of a flush behind him, and chose to ignore it. He didn't feel like making pleasant conversation, especially while he was in the bathroom. He heard the squeak of the stall door as it opened and the click of the man's steps as he walked to the sink next to him.

"Feeling queasy?" asked the man as the faucet was turned on and water rushed over his hands.

An amused smirk came across Sherlock's face as he shook his head.

"No. Not queasy. Just bored."

"Bored?" said the man, a hint of laughter evident in his voice. "How can you be bored at a film festival?"

Sherlock merely shrugged, not being able to figure out a way to adequately explain to a stranger why being at something that everyone else found exciting could be boring to him.

"I wish I could afford the time to be bored," remarked the man as he shut the faucet off, walking over to the dryer to dry his hands. "My life is far too busy to have any room for me to be bored."

How was that even possible? Sherlock lifted his head up then, and turned it toward the man, who currently had his back to him as he tried to dry his hands.

"How?" asked Sherlock. "How do you not have time to be bored?"

"Too many projects," said the man, "But I must say I'm rather thankful for the work. It's just, sometimes, I wish things could slow down a bit."

The man finished drying his hands, and turned to face Sherlock. When Sherlock looked at the man, he froze in shock. Not much was able to shock the great consulting detective, but this did, and rightly so. The man appeared to be just as shock, looking at him with wide eyes.

"Who are you?" they both asked at the same time, both of them now realizing how similar their voices sounded.

"You first," said the man, nodding at Sherlock, appearing quite frazzled.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," he replied. "Surely you have heard of me."

"No way..." said the man slowly as he studied Sherlock closely.

"And who might you be?" asked Sherlock.

"My name is Benedict Cumberbatch," he remarked, taking a step even closer to Sherlock. "Why do you look exactly like me?"


End file.
